With the Silent Strength of the Oak
by CSFoster
Summary: Tohr Rowan, a lord of Goldengrove, and his bastard brother Peter Flowers are always one wrong look away from trouble.
1. Chapter 1

_**With the Silent Strength of the Oak**_

 **Chapter 1**

Like a gentle rolling wind, peace covers the Seven Kingdoms. Robert's Rebellion has ended the Targaryen dynasty and it seems the near future will be free of conflict. Fathers and mothers will raise their families without the crippling fear that their banners will be called and their sons will march away to die so far from home. The stag now sits upon the Iron Throne but the Seven Kingdoms lay virtually unchanged. The great houses that ruled before the rebellion still rule their respective kingdoms today. Just north of Highgarden in The Reach stands an old and prestigious house that swears fealty to House Tyrell: House Rowan. They were named Marshall of the Northmarch and serve the Tyrells and the realm with unwavering honor. The keep of House Rowan sits within a dwarf mountain range that overlooks the low rolling hills of the town of Goldengrove.

Goldengrove is an economic marvel. The city functions with inspiring precision and efficiency. The most luxurious grapes in the Seven Kingdoms are grown right outside the Lord's walls, and the best wine in all of Westeros is pressed with pride by Goldengrove citizens. Rolling hills of grain patched together like the quilt of a king: Brown, red, and white dance in the wind beneath the curling limbs of massive scattered oaks and bountiful walnut trees. Grids of fruit trees and endless vines of plump violet grapes stretch to the horizon in flawless rows as windmills slice through the crisp summer air. Herds of bison roam the plains and are harvested by citizens of the Northern Reach for their many valuable parts. One might walk over a hill and gaze upon its bucolic beauty and swear it were a paradise of the afterlife. The people of Goldengrove need not display artwork in their homes. Fancy paintings hold little value here. The land, so pristine and methodically beautiful, need only be seen from a framed window. In all its beauty, it is not just a pleasure for the eyes and the soul, but a mechanism of assiduity and disciplined execution. The operations of which are overseen by the lord of Goldengrove: Mathis Rowan.

Lord Mathis Rowan is an honorable man. His arduous service to the realm has elevated his house to a status of reverence. It is by no accident that Goldengrove's economy continues to flourish. The lord is a brilliant man, and his talents both politically and economically come second only to his diligence. This empire of wine and grain, built on the backs of hard-working men and women, owes its success directly to Lord Mathis. He built an admirable reputation for The Rowans of Goldegrove. Lord Rowan married Lady Bethany Redwyne of The Arbor. The Redwynes are another powerful and prestigious house. They're from an island just off the coast of the southern tip of The Reach and boast a large and impressive navy. Together, Lord and Lady Rowan have three children: Two girls called Maelene and Gwyneth, and the youngest, a boy called Tohr. Lord Rowan with all of his honor did manage to father a bastard called Peter, two years younger than Tohr, with a whore in Highgarden.

Tohr is a boy of seventeen, born not long after Robert Baratheon first sat upon the Iron Throne. He is as handsome as he is charismatic. Tohr is not a typical, proper Westerosi lord. He was not groomed with particularity to be the heir of his father's legacy. He picked grapes as a child, and he ploughs the fields as a young man. Tohr is cunning like his father, but not driven by pride and politics. He performs his family duties with as much enthusiasm as one would have scrubbing the chamber pots. He truly cares for Goldengrove and its people and he holds much pride in the land. Though apathetic in demeanor, Tohr was gifted with a mesmerizing eloquence. He has a strong jaw-line covered in thick brown stubble and his stoic smirk alone could melt the heart of any woman. Though admired throughout the realm, Tohr does not care much for the façade of lordship. Disingenuous encounters with lords and ladies annoy him. Forced greetings with counterfeit contentedness; it was enough to drive him mad.

Peter is a scrappy young lad with messy blonde hair and a mouth that never shuts. He only seems content if someone somewhere is looking to kill him. Peter is an expert at pulling danger like a boot-knife from of any mundane situation. Peter was a baby when he showed up on the lord's doorstep with a letter from his deceased mother. He is foul-mouthed, loud, and blunt, but extremely loyal to Tohr. Though Peter often causes all the trouble, it is Tohr who talks their way out of a potentially perilous situation. When Tohr's silver tongue could not free them from a tight spot, the two could throw their fists like men twice their size. Peter wore a scar that started from between his eyes and curved along his cheekbone to the bottom of his hear.

They were both also very gifted fighters. With a sword, a bow, an axe, it mattered not. But the two were experts with a knife. The quick draw and slash of a knife could kill a man before he was able to pull his slow heavy sword. Many young men from the northern parts of the Reach settled arguments and feuds with knives, rather than a swords. They admitted it was sort of a silly geographical custom, but it is a skill they wouldn't trade for anything. It was not uncommon, the need, to draw their blades on bandits attempting to seize their cargo during deliveries. Most men underestimate the precision of a knife. The boy's inclination for adventure has brought them face to face with the vileness of foul men and their egregious transgressions. Numerous times they were outnumbered and outmuscled and found a way to slip out unscathed after knocking large vicious men into the dirt. Peter's reputation by itself was enough to create an altercation out of thin air. If Peter's infamy failed him his mouth would assuredly destroy any neutrality in a room.

Gwyneth has a real talent for impressing the realm with her flirty smile, voluminous orange hair, and well rehearsed mannerisms. She is an ideal lady of Westeros and is very much like her mother, and was groomed to be so. Gwyneth is a flower amidst grapes and grain. Maelene is the oldest of the three. She has more in common with an oak tree than her sister. She is tall, quiet, and rarely emotional. Mae, though stoic, is brilliant and bright. She wears her fancy dresses and curtsies when meeting important people, but she is much more than a pretty face. She helps her father with the operations of the Goldengrove economy and has shown a disciplined capacity for politics. When both ladies of House Rowan were promised to esteemed lords of The Reach, and as is custom of Lady Bethany, she threw an extravagant party in celebration. House Rowan was famous for their ostentatious gatherings hosted by Lady Bethany. They had become uncommon yet cherished events.

Every house of the realm had at least one Maester. Usually they were men beaten by age but rich with wisdom. Houses of The Reach were often very lucky to receive some of the best maesters the realm had to offer, simply because The Reach contained Oldtown and the Citadel, the home of the Order of the Maesters. The very best maesters often served houses of the Reach because of their close proximity to the Citadel. The maester of House Rowan, Maester Barrand, was no exception. Maester Barrand was a teacher and mentor to Tohr and Peter and was more of a father to them then Lord Mathis.

On Tohr's thirteenth nameday the Maester presented Tohr and Peter with a matching set of knives. The knives were identical and like no other blades in the known world. The blades themselves were forged in Oldtown by an expert bladesmith named Gworoft Mooire whose fame is second to his elusiveness. You'd swear he were a ghost if you hadn't seen his **ʌ** mark upon blades. Still to this day Tohr is unsure how the Maester was able to come by such finely forged steel. Many Westerosi Knights could not even get their hands on a Mooire blade. They were polished and single-edged with a fuller, bronze pins, guard, and pommel. The knives had buffalo horn handles with curly black walnut wood from an old tree that once stood in the courtyard

"I expect you boys to be responsible with these knives." Maester Barrand had told them. "They hold the soul of Goldengrove and harness the pride of House Rowan within them. And there exists no finer blade that is not of Valyrian Steel. I do not wish to stitch one of you boys up again."

The keep of House Rowan sits atop a very small range of mountains in the otherwise low rolling hills of Goldengrove. Structures of the keep are built of pale stacked stones and lumber of white oaks. Though not necessarily a defensive fortress these substantially staunch buildings have been standing for a thousand years. Small wooden cottages lay scattered throughout the mountains. In some live servants, staff, and family, and some lay unoccupied in anticipation of noble guests. Nearly all of Goldengrove's lands can be seen from the towers of the keep. A long winding wall surrounds the mountains entirely. It curves with the ups and downs of the rough terrain and stands tall with large oak trees that blanket the dwarf mountains. The main stronghold of the keep is tucked back between steep cliffs and inclining slopes and cannot be seen from outside the mountains. Hidden caves lay about the mountains. Some open into large caverns, others turn into castle halls and connect various buildings and rooms. A long cobble road stretches from the main gate to the grand hall, covered by the branches of tall crooked trees. Four small bridges span a snaking creek that forms scattered ponds throughout the range. A packed gravel road bends its way up the saddle of two peaks, where a collection of beautiful large houses and a quiet secluded inn await gratified guests. The keep itself is a small town, hidden to the outside world but busy with crowds of townsfolk and guests alike. The hall of House Rowan is a luxurious stone stacked building with towering pillars of carved white oak and tall elaborately detailed windows. A pale statue of Rowan Gold-Tree stands on a pedestal above a garden of beautiful eclectically colored flowers.

Tall elegant candles dressed in gold lace burned slowly and abundantly in the embellished hall of House Rowan. Long ornate tables carved from curly walnut by generations of the finest woodworkers in Westeros sat illustriously in three columns. At the rear of the hall on an elevated platform stood the head table for the House Rowan family. House banners of fine fabric hung from the rafters with prominence: A gold oak upon a silver plane. Tables were set with beautiful golden trays and crystal goblets of the superior quality. Exquisite wicker baskets sat filled with steaming Goldengrove breads. Bright juicy peaches, large shiny apples, and thousands of apricots lay scattered about each table. Beautiful female servants in long elegant dresses trimmed in gold filled each guest's goblet with a Goldengrove wine hand-selected by Lord Mathis for the occasion.

Lady Bethany Rowan was known for throwing lavish parties and this particular one was by far the largest gathering. Prominent guests from every corner of The Reach were in attendance. The families of Maelene and Gwyneth's husbands to be were seated at the tables closest to the head table. Family members of houses Oakheart, Caswell, Merryweather and Crane were also in attendance. House Redwyne, Lady Bethany's family, showed in the largest numbers. Though a noble and honorable house, the House Redwyne family is an arrogant and gossipy bunch. They boast bright orange hair and freckle covered skin. Lady Gwyneth looks more like a Redwyne than a Rowan, and her and her mother are both ones to gossip, slander, and bully others.

A band of Goldengrove musicians played music softly in the background as the chatter of a hundred guests filled the room. The guests ripped open the warm loaves of freshly baked bread and swirled and sipped their goblets of deep red wine. Smiles and laughter beamed from their faces and besides the Redwynes who sat with noses turned upwards, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Mae teased Gwyneth who was doing her best to be lady-like. Tohr laughed at Peter who was not allowed at the head table, but was blatantly flirting with an older woman from house Ashford as he guzzled down free wine. Lady Bethany sat with pride and satisfaction as her husband stood to address the guests. The room fell silent, the musicians ceased, and all eyes lay on Lord Mathis Rowan.

"I thank you all. I thank you for coming to celebrate the promises of marriage to our two and only daughters to noble houses of The Reach. I hope your journeys here were not burdensome and I hope that when you leave, you leave satisfied. The words of House Rowan: With the silent strength of the oak. The oak is only as strong as its roots are deep. The relationships we have built, and watered, and strengthened, are what keep us standing tall. The oak is only as strong as the ground in which it grows. The Reach, which we all call home, and the Tyrells of Highgarden are the foundation in which we prosper. Please, raise your glasses: To my beautiful daughters and the roots we drive deep."

The guests shared a sip of wine and Lord Rowan took his seat. Lady Bethany placed a hand on her husband's shoulder and gazed at him with endearment. Large carved oak doors swung open and fat roasted pigs were carried out hurriedly to each table with platters of thickly sliced bison meat. A mouthwatering aroma filled the hall. Everyone remained collaboratively jovial as they tore into the eclectic food. Crystal goblets clinked together, fresh barrels of wine were tapped, and food was pouring perpetually from the adjacent kitchen. Peter was slapped in the face after attempting to kiss the old woman from Ashford. Tohr and Maelene erupted with laughter and Gwyneth shook her head in disbelief. The party went on for hours. Guests were dancing and singing, hugging and kissing, drinking, and genuinely enjoying themselves. As candle wax dripped onto the oak tables many of the party-goers started stumbling back their rooms. Lord and Lady Rowan thanked their guests individually and retreated to their bedchamber. There remained nearly forty guests, still drinking and dancing.

Two red-headed Redwynes and another boy with long blonde hair stood in the corner pointing, whispering, and laughing among themselves. Peter took notice of their malevolent gaze and mouthed "Fuck you" to the boys while wiping the juice of a peach from his mouth. The boys were visibly flustered by the action. They puffed up their chests and walked over to Peter. The biggest Redwyne boy was also the oldest, a boy of 17. He was called Richard. He was tall and fit and tucked his red hair behind his ears. The younger of the red heads was Richard's little Brother Arthur. Arthur was a few years younger than Richard. He was short, stocky and painful to look at. The blonde haired boy was their cousin William Redwyne. He was only a hair shorter than Richard but much leaner. You could only tell he was a Redwyne by the way he stood with an upturned nose and the permanent look of disdain plastered about his face.

"Have you something to say bastard?" Richard snickered. "It's great that Lord Rowan even lets you attend these parties. If this were The Arbor I would throw scraps to the dogs before you."

Peter smiled and squinted at the boys. "If this were bread and wine from The Arbor id throw it to the dogs too. I would rather die of thirst than drink the red piss you call Arbor wine."

Richard's face turned beet red with anger. Peter knew exactly how to get under their skin. Peter knows exactly how to get under anyone's skin. Tohr calls it a cruel gift. Richard's hand moved to the handle of his dagger.

"You should be careful how you talk to us bastard. You are beneath us, and House Rowan is beneath us. While you command a plough and scythe I will be commanding a fleet of ships. You are but a worm that crawls in the dirt." Richard's jaw was clenched tightly. William grabbed Richard's shoulder and pulled him back to their table. Arthur spit at the feet of Peter and followed.

"Making some new friends Pete?" asked Tohr as he walked up behind Peter.

"Aye, a lovely bunch of cock suckers." Peter replied.

The numbers of the party continued to dwindle until finally Tohr and Peter were ready to leave. They made their rounds and thanked some of the remaining guests for sharing the celebration with them. Their words were ever slurred and barely formed coherent sentences. The musicians were gathering their instruments. The hall was being mopped and tables cleared. The tall elegant candles were now a heap of white wax that no longer held a flame. The boys exited the hall onto the cobble path where a group of young lords and ladies stood rambling aggressively. It was the Redwyne brothers, William, and their sister Helena. Tohr did not recognize the other two boys but they were surely of a noble house. They were circled around a boy and girl much younger than the group. The Redwyne boys were leading the banter. The young girl in the center had her arm around the boy who was much smaller than her. The boy's eyes were wet with tears and his face red with shame.

"It's just like a boy from Ashford to cry in fear rather than fight." Richard teased. "What kind of lord lets his sister protect him?" the group laughed nefariously.

"Let us go back to our room. He is sick and vomiting. We haven't done anything to you." The girl pleaded.

"The boy is sick from wine? Is he not... from The Reach? You and your family are a disgrace to the realm. This is the land of wine and luxury. Our peasants wear fancier clothes than you, do all the lords of Ashford dress like animals?"

Peter looked at Tohr with drunken anger in his eyes.

"Pete it's fine, let them be. We do not need to involve ourselves tonight, " Tohr pleaded.

"I hate them Tohr. Look at those cunts. They are disrespecting House Rowan by acting like that." Peter replied. He walked with purpose as he advanced toward the group. Tohr followed reluctantly.

"You cock-loving pricks have anything better to do tonight?" Peter shouted. "Why don't you head off to the guest houses and fondle each other like real men of The Arbor? In the morning you can blame the wine and head back to your island confused with sexual uncertainty." Peter was not even able to crack a smile at his Tohr-like insult.

"I think we have had enough of your mouth, bastard." William exclaimed.

"You are not very smart to pick a fight when you are outnumbered. There are five of us and only two of you," Richard smiled. The lords Tohr did not recognize looked at each other with confusion.

"I am ashamed to share blood with you twats. Your disrespect and arrogance has not gone unnoticed. You're picking on the young lord and lady of Ashford because they don't share your enthusiasm for queer elegance?"

Peter pushed himself through the group and took the hands of the girl and her brother. He led them to the gravel path that led to the guest houses. The group turned their attention towards Tohr.

"And what is a boy from Goldengrove to know about elegance? You are nothing more than a farm hand with the last name of a lord. I am promised to squire for Loras Tyrell. While I am off fighting to protect the realm you will be here scrubbing the dirt and shit from your fingernails," Richard said.

"Well, for your sake I hope you fight better than most of the soft men of The Arbor. Gods forbid you're cut in half on the battlefield cause you were busy staring at your reflection in your pretty polished dagger." Tohr pointed at the blade hanging from his ornately braided leather belt.

Richard drew the blade and examined it as it shimmered in the moonlight. Peter stepped towards Tohr and drew his knife. Tohr scratched his head, "You know, most men would not pull a blade unless they intended to use it. I will give you an opportunity to put it away. We will go back to the keep, and you can continue praising yourself for your social status within the realm."

Richard lowered his blade and looked to his goons for the reaction on their faces.

"But I do intend to use it," he raised his dagger and thrust it towards Tohr's stomach.

Tohr side-stepped and threw his fist into Richard's jaw. Richard stumbled back as the other Redwyne boys pulled knives from their tunics. Peter charged the boys with his knife in hand. Tohr pulled his blade and in the same upward motion, slashed the face of Richard. His face displayed a laceration from cheek to forehead. Richard lunged forward with a mask of fresh blood. Tohr leaned back and shoved his knife down into the forearm of the arrogant ginger. Richard's dagger fell to the ground as Tohr threw another punch that put the boy on the ground. Peter dodged the strikes from the two other boys but did manage to cut Arthur's knuckles with a defensive slash. Tohr came up from behind and grabbed Arthur by the throat. Blood sprayed from his hand as he swung his knife wildly at Tohr. With his free hand Tohr grabbed the boy's bloody hand and stuck the boy deep in the thigh with his own blade and twisted it. Arthur cried out in pain and dropped to his knees. His eyes shot wide open and his face turned sickly pale. Tohr turned to the Redwyne girl who was crying hysterically in her hands. Covered in Redwyne blood, Tohr pointed his knife at the other two boys who stood with their arms out and hands open as to not be threatening. Peter delivered a few good cuts to William's chest and arms. In a frantic and final lunge William leaped forward with his knife. Peter jumped back as he kicked the clean blade out of his hand and seized him by the collar of his tunic. Peter reared back and head-butted William in the face. His nose burst open as he fell to his back bleeding profusely. The bloodied Redwyne boys were hollering in agony as two House Rowan servants ran to their aide. Tohr and Peter wiped the blood from their blades on the tunics of the two boys who now stood petrified with mouths agape. They tucked their knives into their belts and ran towards the keep.

The sun still sat below the horizon. The short and sweet whistles of song birds floated through the cool damp air. With heavy eyelids, Tohr pulled himself to the edge of his bed and placed his feet on the cold wood floor. Through the slivers of his partially open eyes he saw his brother sprawled out like a House Bolton banner in a puddle of his own drool. Tohr rubbed his eyes and managed himself to his feet. There was a knock at his bedroom door,

"My Lord? Lord Mathis has summoned you. If Peter is with you he wishes to speak with him as well." the soft voice of Mariella, a House Rowan servant, eased its way through the thick oak door.

Tohr let out a loud and lengthy groan, "Thank you Mariella, we will come at once."

Tohr approached Peter who was smacking his lips and kicked him in the side. He jolted awake with wide eyes and wiped the saliva from his face.

"Put something on, Father wishes to speak with us," yawned Tohr.

Peter sat up and his eyelids fell shut. Tohr kicked him again.

"Now, Pete!"

They advanced down the long corridor and shuffled up the carpeted stone steps to Lord Mathis' quarters. Aggressive words flew through the room as they pushed open the large heavy doors. An enormous table with twenty chairs sat centered in the room. Lord Mathis and Lady Bethany stood at the far end of the table scowling at the boys as they entered. Richard, Arthur, and William were seated at the table but did not make eye contact with Tohr and Peter. A long row of stitches appeared to be holding two halves of Richard's face together. Both of William's eyes were black and nearly swollen shut. Arthur's hand was wrapped up in white cloth and a crutch was leaned up against his chair. Richard and Arthur's sister Helena, and William's father Byron Redwyne stood behind the boys. Byron's face was wine red and a vein that ran vertically across his forehead was bulging from beneath the skin.

"I want these boys flogged for their behavior." Byron's voice was hoarse and dry. "They are thugs with no honor! What kind of cowards did you raise Lord Mathis? Look at them. There is not a scratch on them. They snuck up behind these boys as they left the hall, drew their blades and attacked them."

"Byron, you cannot know what happened by the biased testimonies of your own kin. We need to hear the facts, and we need to go about this reasonably and with the intent to deliver justice." Lord Mathis spoke with such a collected confidence.

"Justice was delivered," Peter said quietly. Byron Redwyne was visibly twitching with rage.

"You fucking bastard!" Byron screamed as he stepped towards Peter. Two Rowan guards came forward and dissolved the conflict.

"Peter, leave." Lord Rowan commanded. Peter turned and paced out glaring at the Redwynes.

"You see? They have no honor and no remorse for their actions. All would be fine if it were an innocent scuffle but look at these boys. They will have permanent damage." said Byron. "Send them to the wall, they do not deserve to be part of a functioning society."

Tohr looked at his father beneath bent brows. "Every story has two sides my Lord. Peter was not wrong. Justice was delivered. It was delivered with swift precision. May I suggest you summon the young Lord and Lady from Ashford father?" The heads of the Redwyne boys dropped in defeat as Tohr peered over them. "Peter was protecting the Ashfords when Richard pulled his dagger on me. I even tried to deescalate the situation once more but he lunged at me. They are liars and they are filth." Something about the way words rolled out of Tohr's mouth always made people listen.

"Tohr, you may leave. You and Peter are to stay within the keep walls until you are sent for again. Is that clear?" Lord Mathis said. Tohr nodded and exited the room as the large heavy doors closed behind him.

On the highest peak of the range was a tall round tower with no roof. It offered a complete view of the keep and surrounding lands. There was a large rock protruding out of the mountainside beneath the that tower that Tohr often went to to clear his mind. There was a tall, strong oak that shaded a grassy plot that could not be seen from the tower or the keep. As Tohr climbed over a wall of rock and stepped out onto the resilient patch of green grass he gazed up upon the towering oak. The tree was split down the middle. Both sides of the colossal oak were peeling away from one another and the fibers of the wood had burst and torn. He peered over the shredded fissure as plump beetles scurried about and burrowed in the tree's bowels.

Tohr sat down in the grass, leaning up against the base of the large rock. A plump crow with beautiful black feathers sat silently perched on one side of the torn tree oblivious of Tohr. Tohr pulled out his knife and chipped off the dry blood that had collected in its fuller. On the surface he was calm and composed, but a lurking fear was churning within him. The Redwynes were a powerful house and had strong connections to the crown. He worried more for Peter than himself. Peter was a bastard, he did not have the same privileges as Tohr. He could not shake the image of the boys' faces from his mind. Their injuries were a lot worse than he had originally thought. He replayed the night over and over again and tried to convince himself that he and Peter could have done something different. He wishes it could have gone differently, but does not regret saving the young Ashfords from the cruelty of those boys. The relationship of Tohr and his father was not one of a typical father and son. Lord Mathis had never shown Tohr or any of his siblings an ounce of love or affection. He was a dispassionate and calculated man that cared more for his reputation and status than he ever had for empathy.

The sun rose from behind an eastern peak as a cool breeze moved through the wildflowers. Birds bounced from tree to tree chirping in discussion. Tohr could see, almost in entirety, the whole of the keep. It looked so halcyon from afar. Small scattered cottages stippled the mountainsides. Smoke rose from the chimney of the hall and faded into the crisp blue sky as creamy white clouds sailed smoothly aloft. Tohr rose to his feet and started back to town down a path of trampled grass.

He found Peter behind the barracks releasing arrows from a Rowan longbow. House Rowan was quite well known for the competence of their archers on the battlefield. Tohr picked up a bow and nocked an arrow. Peter placed a shot in the center of the target. Tohr aimed and sent his arrow spiraling through the air. As it hit the target it shattered Peter's arrow and sent splinters into the air. He looked at Peter with a smug grin and shrugged his shoulders. Peter sat down on a wooden crate and turned to Tohr.

"What do you think is going to come of all this?" Peter asked. "He had to pull that fucking dagger didn't he?"

"I don't know Pete, we did the right thing. We couldn't have caused less damage and still walked away from the fight. I just pray my mother does not side with those twats and convince father we were in the wrong."

Mariella rounded the corner and signaled the boys. They laid down their bows and followed Mariella to the keep. The Redwyne carriages were pulling onto the cobblestone road that led to the main gate as the boys proceeded through the keep doors. Lord Mathis had come down the stairs and met them in the foyer with anger in his eyes.

"What you did to those Redwyne boys is beyond intolerable. We invited them into our home to celebrate and they left with life-threatening injuries." Lord Mathis spoke unhurriedly. "Richard nearly died as they stitched up his face. I thought you had learned your lesson about knife fighting from Peter's incident. There is a possibility that Arthur will never again walk without a limp. Lady Bethany is furious that you have soiled our relationship with The Arbor, and I hope Byron's brother Paxter, Lord of The Arbor does not seek a requital for the blood of his kin that was spilled in Goldengrove. Now, having said that, Lord Wallace and Lady Abigail of House Ashford were not summoned by me. They came to talk with me of their own accord and spoke on behalf of their two young children Robert and Emilie. They attested to your character, corroborated your stories, and believed they owe a debt to House Rowan for your heroism. I cannot, by the gods, forgive you for defiling one of our strongest allies in the Redwynes. But I also cannot pretend the smug Redwyne boys are blameless and virtuous. House Ashford is an honorable house. To not take their testimony earnestly would be a grave mistake and a disservice to all involved. Guests of our family left our walls with serious and nearly fatal injuries. That circumstance is deplorable and inadmissible. However, letting our guests be surrounded and attacked within our walls would also be an egregious offense. I have decided to spare you responsibility of their injuries, but know that you are not forgiven for the brutality of those injuries. Peter is no longer welcomed to live within the keep walls. He will reside in farmhouse on the edge of town. All preparations have been made. You both are to attend the stables, and kennels in addition to your other duties as members of this family. Maester Barrand will be expecting you tomorrow morning to help him tend and clean the infirmary. You may leave."

Tohr and Peter bowed and retired to their rooms. They were quite satisfied with their punishment even if it meant Peter would no longer stay in the keep. The two were rarely pent up inside the walls anyways. For a moment Tohr actually thought they would be sent north to the wall. Why wouldn't they? Tohr is not really treated much like a true son of Lord Mathis anyways. Part of Tohr had always felt like Goldengrove did not offer him enough. He wished him and Peter could run away and board a ship. He'd go port to port and see the world. Peter did not really care as much. So long as there was trouble to get into he was happy anywhere.

Tohr met Peter and started toward the infirmary. The infirmary was a small stone building around the corner from the hall. A gravel path that wrapped around a small green pond led right to the steps of the building that raised up from a garden of wildflowers. The doors opened before they had a chance to reach for them and small old man hunched over with age greeted them and escorted them inside.

"Good morning boys," Maester Barrand smiled. "We stitched those boys up nicely that you sent to us. It's good to see those blades still have an edge after all these years. Lucky for him I have had experience with a wound nearly identical."

Peter looked down at his boots and ran his fingers over the scar on his face.

"I'm very sorry about that sir," Tohr stuttered. "I truly wish there had been another way…"

"It was some of my best work to date I must say!" The Maester interrupted. "I'm sure those boys were not free of blame. I am very familiar with that Redwyne family. I am surprised, however, to see that you boys have not a scratch on you."

"We were very lucky sir," Tohr replied. "Please, anything you need from us sir, we are here to help. If there is anything we are better at than fighting, it is working."

"Yes I believe that is true," Maester Barrand nodded. "Let's start by having a proper breakfast then shall we?"

The Maester directed the boys up a set of narrow stairs that led to a loft above the infirmary. A table was set with bread, wine and boiled chicken. The Maester sat with them at the table as they began eating. He started telling them stories from when he was a young man of Westeros, stories of fights, stories of love, and stories of his adventures before he left for the Citadel. He pointed at Peter and his eyes got narrow.

"You remind me of a boy I knew in my younger days. Have I ever told you that Peter? He was a wild, reckless kid from The Neck, and as mean as a dire wolf. He used to pick fights with the older boys just to prove himself. When I left for the Citadel he got himself into trouble and was sent north to serve in the Night's Watch. Last I heard he had really made a name for himself there too. Boy, he could really fight, you should have seen him make fools of men!" The Maester's eyes had a twinkle in them they had never seen before.

Truthfully the boys knew nothing of Maester Barrand's past. He had always been a great teacher, he taught them the histories of Robert's Rebellion and the conquest of Aegon Targaryen. He instilled in them lessons and morals they carry with them every day. Maester Barrand was often there for them when their father was not. He pushed them to be the best men they could be and strive to be great. But he rarely talked about himself and his upbringing as a boy from the Neck and his experiences in Westeros before joining the Order of the Maesters. This new perspective of the man made them love him even more.

The boys had long finished their meals and headed down to the main floor to begin their penance. The Maester pushed out a pail of water and the boys began scrubbing the blood soaked cobblestones. The entire floor was caked in Redwyne blood. The boys scrubbed for quite some time, only stopping to dump and refill the pail with clean water. The sun was high overhead when they finished. Their fingers were swollen and wrinkly with water. The stone floor was spotless and clean. The chairs and tables had been cleaned as well, the grain of the wood beamed with new life. The Maester was rather impressed with their work and thanked them for their diligent effort and sent them on their way.

Tohr and Peter continued their normal routines: Ploughing fields, cutting wheat, preparing shipments, and organizing the flow of commodities to be exported. When they had finished that, they shoveled the shit from the stables, filled the horses' troughs, and threw scraps of raw meat to the hounds. For months they carried out their mundane duties but did so with integrity. The monotony of their lives began chipping away at their souls. The stress of confinement swelled within them and a ravenous need to escape was clawing to the surface.

Every now and then they'd stop by Maester Barrand's place and help him out with any chores he had. The Maester would feed them, and tell them more exhilarating stories. He told them the tale of The Long Night as though it were history and not legend. He taught them about the Doom of Valyria that changed the face of the world forever, and of Valyrian Steel. He shared with them his childhood, growing up poor in the swamps of the Neck. He was quite jovial and loquacious when he got going. The boys were not forced to visit the Maester, they truly only went because of how happy it made the old man seem, and they did learn a lot. Everytime he started a story, he felt forty years younger. Tohr was fascinated with the stories, he even made it an obligation to obtain a Valyrian steel sword for House Rowan by the time he died, so that he may live on through it as it was passed down to the lords of Goldengrove. So many noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms had a Valyrian Steel sword, why shouldn't they, he thought.

Tohr felt he was outgrowing his home. He longed to explore, adventure, and grow his mind and soul. Perhaps he could squire for a brave Westerosi knight, he was a great with a sword afterall, though even better with a knife. Maybe he'd buy passage on a ship to Essos, or join a mercenary group and travel the world. Wherever he went, he knew his father would not miss him. He had always felt like he had more to offer then his day to day duties of agronomics and lordship. There was always a fire burning deep in his soul that yearned to expand and spread freely. His dreams however, did not always include his brother fighting at his side. But consciously, he could not picture himself without his scrappy little brother. He was the wild that offset his collected composure and Tohr always carried the guilt of what he had done to Peter's face when they were children.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The blades of a windmill chopped at the sunlight. Beams of the morning sun pulsed through the dust and dew. Chickens clucked, scattering into the shade as the horses tails flicked at the crisp air. Tohr tightened down his saddle. The piercing smell of a sharp red wine stained the morning as an order of the finest Goldengrove wine was loaded onto two horse-drawn wagons. Twelve oak barrels sit ready for the grueling trip to Casterly Rock. Under normal circumstances a shipment of wine is not delivered by a lord of Goldengrove. However, this shipment was ordered by Lord Tywin Lannister himself, Lord of Casterly Rock, renown for his deep pockets and economic brilliance. Lord Mathis Rowan has always lived in Tywin's large gold shadow. Many compared Mathis to Tywin, but he cared not. He very much respected the accomplishments of the man, though you'd never hear him mutter that.

It is not uncommon for a shipment to disappear in route and the deliverer with it. Heathens in The Westerlands think the men of The Reach are weak and elegant. Lord Rowan set aside his finest eleven guards to escort the wagons to Casterly Rock. Tywin's request was urgent and heavy with gold. Tohr learned of his father's concern and decided to take the shipment himself. He excused seven of the men and kept the four best for the trip. The roads to The Westerlands are of treacherous terrain and the journey would take them nearly a week one way. The smaller the party, the quicker they will be to arrive safely. It was unavoidable that Peter tagged along and Tohr trusted no person more than his half brother. There swept an early morning breeze across the plains as the six men loaded the wagons in preparation for the long haul to Lannisport.

Peter looked miserable from a long night of drinking the day before. He had large bags under his eyes and his face was pale with lack of sleep. He dragged his feet over to the wagons and checked the ropes.

"Are the barrels secured Pete?," Tohr asked as Peter nearly fell onto the gravel road.

Peter nodded and climbed into a wagon, "Yeah, you fucker. Everything is good." Peter smiled.

Tohr laughed at Peter's distress , "When you stick your cock in a whore for a copper, you get a cunt of a bastard in change." Tohr mimicked his father's most repeated words to Peter.

"Fuck off, ya petty cunt," Peter mumbled as he rubbed the red from his eyes.

Tohr winked at Peter and mounted his horse. Peter grabbed his cock and raised his middle finger to Tohr all without actually opening his eyes. He slumped back into the bench seat of the wagon and pulled a blanket up over his head. The wagons jerked forward and bounced with ambiguity along the long dirt road that curved with the bends of the river. A canopy of mighty oaks shaded them to the edge of the town.

On the second day they had continued on through most of the night and briefly stopped for a quick rest. The fire was pissed on before it had even burnt through the first piece of seasoned oak. The horses were rested, the men had a shit and a drink and they continued on to Cornfield of The Westerlands. They travelled on a road not typically used for larger wagons. When the wheels were not pummeling loose rocks, they were skipping over twisted tree roots. The road was barely wide enough for the width of one wagon. With every mile of conquered path the roads became rockier and more deleterious. The horses stomped along the narrow mountain passes, oblivious to the cliff's edge. The sturdy oak wagons bucked from side to side. The last mountain peak stood proudly above the tall dense pines on the horizon. The sun beat down from directly overhead.

"Almost to Cornfield then, eh Tohr?" Peter exclaimed. "It's been a few years since I right fucked a girl from The Westerlands. They've the tightest twats south of the neck!"

"Like a loose twat has ever stopped you. I've seen you fuck the hole of a wine barrel."

"My prick was stained red for a week too. Poor fella looked like a rhubarb stock."

"I'd say more like a small radish." Tohr smirked. " My feet were stained for two weeks the time I stomped grapes with Gwyneth and Mae. How'd you end up washing it off?

A smile started at the corner of Peter's mouth. "You remember that day I was chased through town by that old man with the gimp leg and a hatchet? He was swearing to the gods he was going to hack my prick from my body. I think he would have done it too! Did you see his old lady smiling at me as I jumped the outer keep wall?" Tohr nodded hesitantly. "Her teeth… they were stained deep red with Goldengrove wine yet she's never had a sip of it!"

The guards broke into an uncontrollable laughter and Tohr shook his head in amazement. He placed a hand on his forehead,

"That hag is nearly 60 Pete! Have you really no pride? You truly are a cunt of a bastard." he laughed.

They reached the bottom of the mountainous pass. The sentinel pines dissolved into lush green plains. The narrow road opened wider into a packed dirt lane. They cruised along at a quick pace. Dilapidated fences adorned the hills. Cornfield was just up ahead and like much in this immediate area, it was ruled over by House Swyft. House Swyft holds fealty to House Lannister. Tohr recalls thinking the Swyfts a bit dumb and bland. He compared the lot of them to a loaf of bread from Cornfield he once came upon: Tasteless, stale, and with too much salt.

The sun was on its descent, it bounced with grace through the feather-like clouds. The sound of domesticated animals lingered in breeze. Small farm houses were increasing in abundance. The dirt road became gravel. The voices of men and women alike were booming from within the city. They passed by some small stone buildings. Horses with their heads bent into dirty troughs shat in the road. The clatter from a hammer-struck anvil, joined with the shouting of farmers, fruit in-hand, was a welcomed racket. They continued passed the horrid stench of the city and set up camp for the night.

They were tucked away against a hill in a small cluster of tall pines in the woods a few miles past town. They would arrive in Lannisport in three days time and Casterly Rock by that evening. The men ripped apart a chicken carcass and a washed it down with wine.

"We are going into town men," Peter announced "We have a couple… things we need to take care of." He looked at Tohr and smiled.

"You two fucks are going to the whore house. We're not complete fuckin idiots," one of the guards shrugged. "We were paid in advance to guard these wagons. Go on then, don't be bringing back any trouble with you." They laughed.

Tohr looked up from the fire with a smirk on his face, "How did I get dragged into this mess? You can get your cock touched in Lannisport soon."

"And I intend to! Now can we hurry up before I have to share a hole with two other men?"

Tohr and Peter get up from the fire. Tohr walks over to the wagon and reaches in. "Come on mate, I'm bloody dying!" begged Peter. Tohr pulls out a jar of sealed wine and Peter's eyes get big. "You might have a chance at bedding a classier woman with this stuff," said Tohr as he glanced over at the guards. "Two on, two off yeah?" The guards nodded. Tohr and Peter jumped on their horses and rode off towards town.

They tied their horses up behind the brothel. Peter spit in his hand and ran his fingers through his messy blonde hair. They made their way to the cobble road, stepping over foul smelling puddles. There were townsfolk outside, some naked, passing around a jug of mead. The cobble path was lit with torches. They glanced at each other and continued past the crowd.

"You're about to step into some shit," a drunk man yelled with his prick out.

"Eh… Excuse me?" Asked Peter. Tohr grabbed him by the arm and pointed down at a pile of excrement. "Ah for fucks sake" he cried. "Fucking disgusting". Tohr laughed as they entered the brothel door.

They were submersed in an aroma less foul than outside. Flavored smoke rolled through room. Fire encased in brass and glass hung from the walls and ceiling. The room was filled with people. There were twenty five men, maybe more, each one with at least one woman. The middle of the building was lower than the entrance floor and a railing enclosed it. Instead of chairs and tables, the middle section had long pew-like benches. Private rooms sat along the perimeter, with curtains and beads in the place of doors. The women were surprisingly better looking than Tohr thought they would be. An older woman greeted them warmly at the entrance. She was wearing clean robes with silk lace that were revealing yet, they knew she was no whore. She walked them over to table on the far-side of the building. "The women will be out shortly gentlemen. Buy some mead, wine, whatever your heart or cock desires." The woman said as she quickly turned to leave.

"And what about you ma'am? What if I'd like you?" smiled Peter. She smiled and winked and disappeared behind a curtain. Tohr sat quietly scanning the room.

"Tohr… Look at the reddie with the big man." Peter pointed. "I love reddies, wild little things they are… I have to have her. What do you think?"

"I think that she's with another customer Pete, just wait. We're not here to cause problems. They've not even brought the girls out yet."

The redhead looked over at Pete and smiled with rosy freckled cheeks. She realized she was staring and turned back to her customer who was too busy showing her his shiny new shield to notice he had not her undivided attention. His shield bore a handsome blue rooster proudly erect upon a yellow field. Tohr raised an eyebrow to Peter who had not seen her smile at him. Just then, a line of women walked over to them. They were beautiful young women baring their breasts. Peter examined the women over. He took the hand of a tall, large-breasted woman. She was nearly twice his size and he had apparently not noticed, or maybe he had. She plopped down on Peter's lap and Tohr swore the room shook. Peter looked a bit unable to breathe as she played with his golden locks. Tohr looked up at a young dark haired woman. Her bangs covered one eye as she stood with folded arms looking at the floor. Tohr rose to his feet and reached for her hand. She was hesitant, but met eyes with him. As their fingers touched she was jerked back by a large man. He was a big nasty brute with one long yellow eyebrow. He shouted to the brothel host whilst soaking the young girl in spit,

"Put this one on my tab too, Laura." He laughed and licked the tip of each finger.

He threw the petite girl over his shoulder as he walked down two stairs to the middle of the room and sat down next to the red-headed girl. Tohr watched as the man conversed with his shield-bearing friend. They laughed impudently and without reservation. Tohr could not help but feel something sinister about these two menacing brutes.

"Excuse me sir!" The hostess had walked over. "Sir? Choose your woman so they can get back to work! Perhaps you want two?" She smiled.

"I'm sorry. No ma'am just the one," Tohr replied and grabbed the hand of the closest girl to him.

She promptly sat on his lap, breasts still exposed. He was unequivocally uneasy staring at the dark haired girl dragged off by that vile beast. Peter was tongue deep in the mouth of his large woman and his hands were nowhere to be found.

"I'm sorry ladies please excuse us for a minute," said Tohr. Something about his voice was eerie yet calm. Peter looked up at him bewildered.

"I'm so sorry, please don't go anywhere I will be back shortly," Peter slid out from under her. "Please!"

Tohr walked Peter to the entrance that was unexpectedly quiet, he glanced at the pompous brutes as he rounded the corner.

"I'm sorry Pete but I've got a bad feeling about those two Cornfield knights. How'd you like to talk to that red head you we're eyeing earlier?"

Peter thought for a second, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm in."

They paced back to their table and Tohr placed down four silver pieces in front of the two women. He took a deep breath and walked past the railing into the lower middle section of the brothel. Peter snuck around to the stairs opposite his brother. Their eyes met and Tohr reached down and picked up a goblet of wine from the table of the Cornfield knights. He looked directly into the man's single eyebrow as he tilted the wine into his mouth. Both men jumped to their feet and the women fell to floor.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing down here kid? This section is for knighted men," the man's eyebrow now formed a V.

"I wanted to see what kind of wine you heathens drink in The Westerlands. And I must say it's far from appropriate considering the occasion." Tohr's mocking smirk was more of an insult then having had just called them heathens. "Since you guys don't seem too happy with me right now for potentially ruining your evening I will tell you what," Tohr pulled the jar of Goldengrove wine from under his tunic. "This wine here is made in The Reach. It is unquestionably the best wine you will ever taste in your life. Tohr broke the seal and took a swig.

"Considering the occasion? What's the occasion then you little prick?" laughed the young knight as he set his shiny new shield aside.

"Tonight is the night you almost fucked two beautiful women, but got fucked by two kids from The Reach instead." Before finishing the sentence Tohr swung the full jar of wine into the face of the unibrowed man.

The jar exploded and sent wine and glass showering down on the room. The man's legs buckled and his body went limp. The other brute reached back for his sword that had been neatly leaned up against the circled railing. But Peter had his sword, still sheathed, and delivered the heel of his boot to the man's mouth. He stumbled back and gathered himself. He reached into his open mouth and pulled from it a glob of blood and teeth. Tohr looked at Peter puzzled. The man reared back and chucked the coagulated mass at Peter. A stringy chunk of blood splattered across Peter's face and a tooth deflected off his cheek into the air. Tohr left the ground and with two feet kicked the man in the back. Peter held the sword with one hand on the hilt and the other towards the point. As the man flew forward his face was bludgeoned by his still sheathed sword. He fell backwards into the broken glass, his face was a mangled mess. Tohr jumped to his feet and dusted himself off. He reached into a pouch and pulled out another four silver coins, which he placed on the man's chest. He winked at the women as Peter dropped the man's sword by his unconscious body.

"Ladies," Peter nodded.

They sprinted out of the brothel before the dust had settled back down between the floorboards. They climbed up on their horses and raced off down the gravel road.

The night still held the sky when they arrived to the smoldering embers of camp. All four of the men were awake and preparing the wagons for departure. Tohr and Peter dismounted and secured the leather straps of the wagon to the saddles of the horses. The eldest guard, a man they called Strong James on account of his towering size looked the boys up and down,

"You fuckers got into some trouble I see."

Tohr and Peter looked at each other and realized they were covered in blood and wine.

"Are we in a hurry to leave?" Strong James asked.

"We… I think… Well, we should not take our time," Tohr replied.

Peter laughed and Strong James shook his head with a smile. The wagons pulled out of the woods and onto the gravel road. They were two and a half days from Casterly Rock and on pace to arrive early. The path from here on out was smooth and easy. A wide dirt road that bobbed with the rolling hills. The space between the tall pines grew as they pressed on. With every hill they climbed a new horizon appeared and the smell of the ocean strengthened. A plume of grey smoke rolled towards the clouds far off in the distance. As they reached the crest of a large hill Tohr halted the wagons. Peter sat up and peered towards the horizon. The long dirt road gracefully sloped down, lined with pines and palms toward the rocky coastline of the Westerlands. The vast blue ocean curved at the edge of the world beneath a haze and fog lit by the rising sun on their backs. The wagons began the descent and hastily raced downward to the coastline.

The wagons pushed forward and the road became flat. Houses lined the road that quickly became gravel. The sun was about to set and plunge itself into the ocean as the men pulled up to a quiet little inn at the Ocean Road intersection. Smoke poured from two chimneys atop the roof of the inn and the smell of warm fish stew filled the air. They pulled the wagons around back and purchased three rooms for the night. A long day of travel lay before them and the lack of rest on the men's faces was visibly apparent. The men had been surviving on dried bison meat, as is common among warriors from the Reach away from home, but the taste grows dull. They filled their bellies with stew and wine and hit the beds like the heavy stones of the Westerlands. Tohr woke the men before any light of the sun had touched the night sky. He checked the wagons and walked-over the well rested horses from the stables. The men came down ready to start the day's trek. Strong James handed Tohr a bowl of wet oats.

"Long day ahead of us m'lord," said Strong James as he climbed atop his horse.

The reigns slapped down and the horses galloped forward. The wagons hustled along the flat stone road as it danced along the coastline. The salty wet air eddied around the caravan. Large green waves impregnated with sea grass crashed into the jagged rocks of the shore and spewed a frothy white foam. A gang of plump black crabs scurried through the ocean brush and disappeared between rocks. The Ocean Road was a popular route in the Westerlands. It connected Lannisport to Highgarden and was sprinkled with family fruit stands, meat markets, and quaint little inns. Though a longer route to Goldengrove from the shortcut Tohr took, the Ocean Road's terrain is much less treacherous. However, the Ocean Road is known to be a target of pirates, thieves and general thuggery. The sun rose on their right as they marched along hastily. Dense green moss filled the cracks between the flat stones of the road. They started up a marginally inclining hill as the ocean peeled away from the road. Boulders the size of castle towers lay piled up like a plate of bones after a king's feast. An eclectic arrangement of trees with tentacle like roots sprouted from the gargantuan stones. Between a split in the trees at the crown of the hill, far out across a stretch of green sea, a tall pillar-like mountain could be seen, standing with power and authority. That mountain was Casterly Rock. Tohr had only been to Casterly Rock once before but he was much younger. His memory served him well for it was just as astonishingly majestic as he remembered.

They passed a few south bound wagons and horsemen as they journeyed further north. The small ramshackle cottages became a scarcity as stone houses with tile roofs grew more common. The houses soon became gated farms with brilliantly landscaped yards. Tall beautiful trees surrounded elaborately garnished homes. The towers of Casterly Rock became more visible with every leap of the wagons. The Sun was to their left and the clouds in the sky were lit with warm colors. A missing stone in the road sent the lead wagon bucking in the air. The horses were yanked back and a wooden wheel at the front of the wagon burst into pieces as it crashed against the stone road. The rear wagon halted and Strong James who was at the tail end of the caravan on his horse galloped to the front. Tohr jumped down and assessed the damage. They had a spare wheel for an incident like this but they were losing daylight with every wave that hammered the shore.

"We will set camp here tonight men," Tohr sighed. "Let's get these wagons over to that clearing and get a fire started."

"Yes m,lord," replied Strong James.

Peter lead the rear wagon to the clearing off the road behind a large rock and a pine. The four guards sat at the back of the wagon to transfer the weight from the front. They pulled the wagon off the road and lead the horses to the rear of the camp. Peter started the campfire as Strong James and Tohr worked on the wagon. Strong James threw Peter his saddle bag and smiled.

"I bought some pork and bread a ways back. Should be plenty enough for the lot of us. Throw that leg on the fire would you?" Strong James announced.

Peter's eyes lit up with elation as he pulled a large pig quarter from the bag and tore off the brown parchment. He ripped a loaf of bread in sixths and passed them around. Tohr hammered the final pin into the hub of the fresh oak wheel and joined the men around the fire. By this time tomorrow they will be drowning themselves in Lannisport wine and Peter will be under an ugly woman for far too much silver.

Tohr kept first watch as the men lay strung about. As quick witted and loquacious as Tohr can be, he often preferred solitude. He could walk about in his head perpetually and never grow tired of it. He would dream of adventures and heroic liberation from evil forces. He returned to his childhood and relived life lessons and fond memories. He replayed stories that Maester Barrand told and placed himself in his boots. It was his clear and familiar mind that endorsed his consciousness of self worth. He was humbly obligated to remove himself from the comfortable and the mundane and that obligation had manifested into fate. It tore him apart to feel this way, that he longed to leave behind his beloved home. But Tohr knew he could never be true to himself if he did not at least try.

Tohr woke to smoldering embers. The men were up and once again preparing the convoy, this time for its final destination. The smell of garlic and fresh bread newly pulled from a brick oven skipped down the Ocean Road and slapped the men in the face with its aroma. The convoy started down the road but stopped prematurely for a load of warm bread. The men were convinced they had found the best bread in the Westerlands, and after having devoured it, pushed the convoy onward. The coastline began to creep towards the road until once again they traveled with the mist of the crashing waves swirling around them. They were not far from Lannisport, and expected to be at Casterly Rock before the sun started back down toward the ocean.

The early morning roads were booming with people. Wagons full of grain, lumber, and stone pulled on and off of. Men and women on horses weaved in and out of traffic traveling north and south. The shouts and chatter of the busy crowd only grew the more north they traveled. Children ran about selling apples, apricots, and pomegranates. Houses popped up a stone's throw from one another and lay between high hills and towering rock formations to the east and west. Chimneys poked up from a blanket of thatch and wood planked rooftops. Wooden fences and stacked stone walls ran in every direction around fields of tall grass. Scarce pines and swaying palms stood tall above the rooftops. Narrow dirt roads checkered the landscape and stretched to the amorphous hills of jagged stone mounds.

Tohr nodded to and greeted passers-by as they continued north. Most were too rushed to lift their heads, and others were not concerned with manners of travel. The steep hills and large boulders began choking in on the road. Straight ahead in the distance the entrance of Lannisport lay. The road was walled in by the rugged and high reaching crags. It was a roofless channel that funneled them into to the city.

A canopy of red terracotta tiled roofs stretched like rippling hills to the horizon. Busy streets cut in and out of pale stone buildings, as townsfolk bustled through the labyrinth of tiered structures. Jutting up from the sea of red waves stood tall ornate towers with marvelous round roofs adorned at the top with gold statues. Lavish arches of the same pale stone were profusely scattered about and some lay high above the ground spanning roads and connecting buildings and towers. Elaborate round windows decorated with gold trim sat with prominence throughout the city. And from behind this incredibly stunning city, rising from the coast like a lonely stone mountain into the clouds, was Casterly Rock the keep of House Lannister.

They snaked their way through the city past storefronts and businesses of goldsmiths and jewelers. Most of the citizens were dressed in expensively stitched tunics and went about their business ignoring others. They could see the ocean from the incline of a steep road. A series of long stone docks reached out into the sea like fingers of a colossal stone giant. The biggest ships Tohr and Peter had ever seen sat numerously with masts that reached to the sky. Sails of every color and every house rippled in the wind as wooden crates were moved on and off ships with thick braided rope. The shouts of thousands of men echoed through the city and skipped across the red baked clay tiles. They continued through the northern gate and hugged the jagged coast as their shadows disappeared beneath them.

They were stopped at the base of Casterly Rock by a unit of Lannister guards. Four of the Lannister men approached the wagons as Tohr and his crew sat staring dumbfoundedly at two enormous lion statues that towered over them. The statues sat on either side of the entrance raised on stone pedestals and seemed to be made entirely of gold.

"What brings you to Casterly Rock?" asked a Lannister man with lion head pauldrons.

Tohr hopped from his wagon, "We are from House Rowan of The Reach sir. Lord Tywin ordered a dozen barrels of Goldengrove wine and we are but delivering them. I am Tohr Rowan, heir to Goldengrove and son of Lord Mathis Rowan."

Peter and Strong James peeled back the heavy woven blankets from atop the wagons. The wagons still rocked as the wine sloshed in the barrels from their sudden stop. Strong James reached into the wagon and pulled from it a glass jar of wine. He handed it to Tohr who passed it to the Lannister man. The man pulled the cork from the jar and took a sip. His eyes lit up and he called over the other three men.

"This wine is exceptional!" he said as he passed it to his men. "It has been a while since I had the honor of enjoying a wine from the Reach. I believe Lord Tywin will be extremely satisfied."

The men passed the wine around and marveled at its quality. Tohr was handed back the wine and took a sip. He replaced the cork and handed it back to the men.

"I drowned in this wine at home," Tohr smiled. "Please take the jar. Consider it a gift."

"Thank you Lord Rowan. My wife will be very happy with me for once." he laughed.

The four men mounted their horses and led the wagons up a switchback path. They climbed the towering mountain for what seemed like an eternity. The wheels of the wagon often slipped on the smooth stone road and the horse's heads dropped with determination as they lunged onward. They came to a flat area halfway up the mountain. The faces of buildings carved right into the meat of the rock covered the mountainside. The road wrapped around the back side of the mountain and they stood before the tall entrance of a tunnel that sat agape like the mouth of a cavern. The tunnel, plenty wide enough for even six wagons side by side, opened up into a large room. The room was filled from floor to ceiling with thousands of wooden crates, metal chests, and barrels. Men pulling carts bustled through the heart of the mountain as large wagons were loaded with Lannister goods. One of the men trotted out of sight and came back with a large sack of gold. Behind him walked a man in commoner's clothes leading a horse loaded down with saddles.

"Leave the wagons. There is enough gold here to buy eight just like them on top of the payment for the wine. Unbind your horses from their wagon harnesses and take these saddles. Goldie here is a stubborn young mare but she is as good as they come with a halfway decent rider. She is yours now," the man said.

He handed Tohr the heavy leather drawstring bag, the weight of which caught Tohr off guard. He peered inside as the brilliant sparkle of Lannister gold reflected in his eyes.

"Lord Tywin greatly appreciates your haste delivery. A Lannister always pays his debts!" he smiled as he left hurriedly.

Tohr's men secured their lavish new saddles to the horses. He grabbed the lead of Goldie and they walked down the tunnel to the light of the setting sun. He climbed upon her back and peered out over Lannisport. Pink rays of the sun bounced from the backs of the rolling waves. He ran his hand down Goldie's brown mane and whispered in her ear. They slowly descended down the face of the mountain. As they continued past the golden sentry-like lions the last sliver of sun hung stubbornly on the horizon as if it were teetering on the edge of the world.


End file.
